Starting Over
by Athenyx
Summary: Modern AU. Bellarke slow burn. Clarke can't let them discover who she really is or there would be hell to pay. But she's not in town to hurt them. She's there to bring some light back into their lives - especially the broken Deputy Blake. And maybe along the way she'll shed some light on the tragedy that ties them all together.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Clarke punched another quarter in the vending machine on auto-pilot. Her eyes were fixed on the tall, broad-shouldered man reflected in its scuffed glass surface. He rose from his perch on the brown leather barstool with a friendly nod to his fellow diners. His dark hair fell about his face carelessly and his lips quirked up in thanks to the starry-eyed woman serving him. Starry-eyed because if she leant over the counter much further she'd have an embarrassing accident. He was as cool as a breeze, natural and self-assured in a way most people would envy. It was probably a cop thing.

Why the small town's most popular diner had an alcove of vending machines in the neighbouring courtyard, complete with outdoor foosball table and sheltered arcade games, she hadn't figured out, but it made for a good excuse to loiter in full view of the diner's occupants. It was probably a popular place with the local high school's whopping four hundred and fourteen students.

Deputy Blake left The Sound Byte with a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a brown paper bag clutched in the other. A blueberry muffin, she saw, after the server slipped it from the pretty blueberry, most likely hand-painted, glass topped cake dish just moments ago. There was a whole line of those dishes posing along the bar, like a fruit salad parade. Mentally logging his preference for baked goods was research and not stalker-like at all. For that she would need a notebook.

Clarke shifted on her feet as a bead of sweat trickled down her temple. It was more from anxiety than the growing June heat, and she absently fed the vending machine one quarter after another to keep up her act. Deputy Blake hooked mirrored aviators over his dark eyes and surveyed the street, his gaze skimming her in a genial fashion. Following him for the past two and a half days had made her hyper-aware of the deep sadness buried beneath his ready smiles. It was in those unguarded moments she should have stopped watching. It was also those moments that made it impossible to stop. Perhaps she was a bit of a sensitive – her artistic streak was programmed to notice the wild and the wonderful, but also the human.

Blake returned to his squad car, that dark uniform a blot on the bright Spring landscape, and interrupted his partner's snooze with a sharp rap on the passenger window. He laughed as he cranked the engine. Clarke dropped another quarter in the machine and let out a wavering sigh. The dull plonk hardly registered in her distraction.

"I'm pretty sure that's enough quarters to keep the entire football team supplied with M&Ms."

Clarke jolted, dropping her remaining quarters, and turned to face the stranger. The tinkling sound as the coins rolled in swirly patterns along the tarmac accompanied the fast beating of her heart.

Grey overalls tucked into black, steel toe-capped boots and tied at the waist to reveal a white, grease-stained muscle shirt. The woman should have looked decidedly masculine; instead she was a poster-girl for women that worked with their hands. Pun fully intended.

Her sleek mahogany hair held back in a long ponytail revealed high cheekbones, smooth olive skin and pretty brown eyes exotically turned up at the corners. They were currently alight with mirth.

Clarke slid her own eyes to the flashing digits displaying the total sum of $16.25 and her cheeks burned. She kept a cache of quarters in her car for emergency laundromat cycles and vending machines runs – essential when living out of motels – and this had pretty much wiped out her supply. It looked suspicious as all get out.

"I'm just really hungry…and thirsty." Clarke mumbled.

The woman smirked and fanned herself with a bundle of colourful fliers she had clutched in her hand. "Bellamy Blake can do that to a woman."

Shoot. Clarke looked away, hiding behind her newly shorn hair, and pushed the red button to return her money. It made a cacophony as it regurgitated them all into the little coin slot. She bent down to retrieve her money before it could continue to spill all over the asphalt.

Clarke had been so covert in her surveillance of the town's favourite deputy, but evidently not covert enough. She toyed with the possibility of pretending he wasn't the object of her scrutiny as she stuffed her pocket full of change, but a flash of insight told her she could work with this. She could definitely work with this. Clarke shrugged and aimed a rueful grin at the stranger. "Who doesn't like a man in uniform?"

"Thieves, murderers, rapists, terrorists, gangsters, arsonists…" The woman tapped her lip thoughtfully. "Politicians, lawyers…"

"Pretty sure 'villains' would have covered all of the above nicely." Clarke interrupted on a surprised laugh.

"My kind of woman." The stranger hooked her arm through Clarke's and led her past the glass siding of the diner. She went willingly, needing the excuse to move away without a crate of soda.

"I'm Raven Reyes – I work over at The Chop Shop. You're new around here, right?"

"What gave it away?" Clarke held her free hand out and awkwardly shook Raven's. "I'm Clarke Griffin."

Raven nudged her chin in the direction of the uniform row of parked cars along the street. Her Audi R8 was like a Doberman among Labradors. "It was the car that did it for me. Don't know anybody in town with your kind of taste and the money to feed it, and I've gotten to know everyone's vehicles pretty well. Working in downtown's only garage and all."

Clarke rubbed the corner of her eye and pursed her lips. It had been an impulsive gift – another sentimentally driven decision.

"What colour red is that any way?" Raven craned her neck to look back at the bodywork.

Clarke cleared her throat. "Sienna. It's called Sienna red. Did you say The Chop Shop?"

"Pretty nifty, huh?" Raven grinned, her eyes dancing. "I figure – Latino woman, Spanish rap full blast on the stereo, taco truck outside, running a garage in a nowhere town, in nowheresville, Virginia – why not stick it to the man?"

Clarke raised her brows. "Nifty."

"Listen – you had breakfast yet?" Raven rubbed her trim stomach dramatically. "No, of course you haven't. Its barely 8am. I'm starving, and Monty makes the best French toast this side of the Mississippi – trust me."

"No. I mean, sure, why not." Clarke was a bobble head with all the nodding she was doing. "I could eat."

Raven released her grip, pivoted with all the grace of a ballerina, turned the corner and swept open the door to the diner. She called out several greetings to the patrons when the bell signalled their entrance. She laid her flyers down on the edge of the counter and Clarke realised they were advertising a local band called The Grounders. When was the last time she'd thought about something as simple as live music? Too long ago, clearly.

Warm, cinnamon and bacon scented air and the sound of gentle chatter drifted around Clarke like a warm hug. She felt the corners of her lips tip up involuntarily. It had been ages since she'd enjoyed a warm cooked meal too, never mind shared a meal with someone else. Usually she ate whatever she could on the go, but her diet consisted mainly of jerky, apples and soda. She didn't need her doctor to tell her she should have been taking better care of herself. Maybe now she was here, she finally could.

She followed her new friend to the vacant corner booth situated at the front of the diner, in full view of the shops on main street and any passers-by. The place was typical Americana with an internet café twist – a long, stained walnut bar lined with stools took up one length, covered in those pretty glass dishes, snug booths in black and white striped leather lined the walls in an L shape, and a stack of laptops for hire were set on a rack with magazines and books at the end of the counter. The wall behind the counter advertised the daily specials – lavender lettuce salad was today's, whatever that was.

Halogen lights glinted off the scrubbed linoleum floor and lit up the framed photos lining the wall. Celebrities, maybe? She didn't readily recognise any of them, but she'd also never had a head for famous people. A mix of blues and country thrummed out of the speakers. Clarke half expected to find the staff whizzing about on roller skates, rocking their hips as they waited on tables – or maybe in cowboy boots crushing nut shells with every step.

A waitress with a sour expression and bottle blond hair teased into huge curls bore down on them to take their order. She wasn't wearing roller skates. A butterfly tattoo was nestled across her cleavage, exposed due to the precariously buttoned shirt of her classic red and white dolly uniform. This was Deputy Blake's star-struck server up close and personal.

"What'll it be?" Clarke would draw her with a hip cocked, her foot tapping and a string of bubble gum being teased out of her crimson painted mouth by one manicured finger.

"Two of my usual, thanks, Harper." Raven boomed. For such a little person she had a big voice. "And keep the coffee coming. I've got a corvette that needs a complete engine overhaul and I don't need to be falling asleep at the wheel, so to speak."

"Coffee for you too?" Harper turned her gaze to Clarke. It was both curious and resentful at once, which was a pretty mean feat. Like she was dying to ask Clarke who she was, but annoyed she didn't already know the answer.

"Yes, please." Clarke pushed her glasses further up her nose with one finger and smiled, but that only seemed to make Harper's eyes narrow more.

Raven turned to Clarke while Harper sauntered off with her nose in the air. "Don't you just love that? My _usual!_ _Love_ it."

Clarke grinned. Raven was turning out to be a great distraction. Maybe this was an omen? A good one. She was engaging with an actual human being.

"I don't think I ever had a usual at any place like this," Clarke admitted. "Where I come from there are too many people for the staff to remember just the one."

"Snap!" Raven exclaimed. "I was raised in Brooklyn. They call it the village, but it ain't like any village I've ever seen, you know?"

"Yeah." Clarke smiled.

"Where you from anyhow?"

Clarke squirmed in her seat. It wasn't like the details of her life had been made public knowledge – she'd been protected from that. But the information was still out there, if someone wanted to do their homework. Especially a man with access to police resources. It felt risky, but at the same time, where was the harm? "Boston. But I went to school in England."

Raven snapped her fingers. "That explains the accent. You're like a cross between that heiress on Downton Abbey and the people from Cheers."

Clarke cocked a brow. "You watch Downton Abbey?"

"They have great costumes." Raven said. "And _so_ much drama, it could put Jeremy Kyle out of business."

"Amen to that, sister." She joked.

The warm and snuggly Harper returned with two mugs hooked through her fingers, her coffee jug, and an even sourer expression, if that was possible. She looked put out when they both stopped talking until she'd left to return to the counter when an order was announced by the sprightly little counter bell.

"So what brought you to the Virginia?" asked Clarke.

"A guy." Raven rolled her eyes. "What else?"

"I take it the guy's history?"

"Ancient." Raven agreed. "But the town stuck with me, you know?"

"Not really." Clarke's smile was fragile.

Harper returned with two plates piled high with French toast, fresh strawberries and whipped cream. Clarke's stomach chose that opportune moment to rumble at the enticing smells.

Once Harper had given up loitering at the next table over in a conspicuous attempt to eavesdrop, Clarke sent Raven a puzzled look. I mean, how much sugar did she think those shakers needed? "I take it you don't get a lot of tourists around here?"

"Not so much. But that's not it." Raven looked surprised. "You know I keep forgetting you're not from around here. I feel like I've known you for more than…" she glanced at her watch and grinned. "Twenty four minutes."

"I have that effect." Clarke said.

"She's jealous." Raven shrugged. "She probably saw Blake checking you out earlier and she's dying to dig up some dirt to discredit you before you get any romantic inclinations towards her latest beau."

Clarke wrinkled her nose. "_She's_ dating him?"

"She _wishes_ she was dating him."

"Ah." Clarke said. "I see."

And she really did see. To anyone else, Bellamy Blake was the ultimate catch. Town hero, upstanding brother and all-round good citizen - and a handsome son of a bitch to boot. To anyone else – but not her.

They tucked into their food with enthusiasm. Clarke couldn't help the muffled moan at the sensations licking along her taste buds. Damn, Raven was right, it was amazing.

"Told you, didn't I." Raven chuckled between bites. "If there's one thing I don't joke about, it's food."

Clarke merely nodded and grinned around a mouthful of sugary, cinnamon goodness. She devoured the entire plate in minutes. Sure, she'd have indigestion later, but she pleaded temporary insanity.

"So, what brings you to Arkadia?" Raven sat back in her seat, sipping from her coffee mug as she watched Clarke over the brim.

Clarke fiddled with a sugar packet and shrugged. "I've been travelling for a while now, and it seemed as good a place to stop as any."

She ripped the sugar packet open and added it to her coffee. She avoided the creamer – if she couldn't have milk, she'd have it black. One of the many quirks she'd picked up from her schooling days.

"It sure is a beautiful place." Raven said. "But not a lot happens around here. If you're looking for a bit of excitement you'd be better off up in Polis, or even DC."

"I've just come from DC." Clarke said. "Neither place was it for me."

It wasn't strictly a lie. She had driven through them on her way to this little town set in the shadow of Mount Weather. Driven through them with a purpose, sure, and in an attempt to stall the inevitable.

"Actually, I think I might stick around a while. Maybe even find some work…" she smiled as the idea sprouted wings and flew away from her.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but I couldn't help but overhear you girls."

Clarke turned around and surveyed the older woman with surprise, and just a little suspicion. The latter was a new habit she was trying to break, but the woman must have had ninja levels of sneakiness.

Berry tinged hair surrounded a surprisingly youthful face, though Clarke gaged her to be in her late 40s – in fact, everything about her was tinged towards purple, from her flowing maxi dress to the dangling beads at her ears and the sparkling violet of her nails.

"Clarke, meet Cece." Raven's tone was brimming with warmth. "She's our resident woo woo lady."

Clarke looked from one to the other when Cece only seemed to delight in Raven's words. "Woo woo?"

"What Raven means, darlin', is I'm the go-to-lady for herbal tinctures and I run the local yoga and meditation classes." Cece shrugged her sturdy shoulders. "Around here, that counts as woo woo."

"She also runs the most successful lavender farm in the county and is my personal hero." Raven rose up half out of her seat and kissed Cece on the cheek. "Care to join us?"

"No can do, sweetheart." Cece smiled at Raven, then turned a surprisingly powerful gaze on Clarke. Her eyes seemed purple then too – an unnatural violet that made Clarke shrink back into her seat. "I heard you say you were looking for work."

"Oh…" Clarke fumbled with a napkin. "I think…maybe…I'd only just decided really."

"Well, now that you have decided, you ought to know there's a job going at the Sheriff's station."

"The Sheriff's station?!" Clarke nearly choked on the words. "I don't think I'm police material, no offense. Thank you for the offer but - "

"None taken, darlin'." Cece's laugh was like sweet tea to the South in her accent. "But the job is for a dispatcher-come-receptionist-come-coffee-girl. And you can draw too can't you?"

"How could you tell?" Clarke looked down at her lap with furrowed brows.

Cece reached over and gently took Clarke's hands in her own. Lavender drifted towards Clarke with the movement. "The hands never lie."

Clarke stared at her own palms as though she didn't recognise them. It was the charcoal. It always stained her fingers unless she scrubbed them for a good long time. With motel soap? Make that a good ten minutes.

"Why does she need to draw?" Raven watched them both over the rim of her coffee mug.

"To be a sketch artist of course." Cece said. "You never know when we might need one, and none of those boys can draw worth a lick."

Raven slammed her mug down and laughed uproariously. "Sketch artist! Cece, this is Arkadia, not Polis."

Cece smiled indulgently. "It's always better to be prepared."

Clarke watched her rummage in a big amethyst straw bag she'd seemingly produced from nowhere and pull out a business card to press into Clarke's hand. Her first thought registered shock that the card was green – that's how purple tinted her gaze had become – but she managed a private smile at the lavender stalks edging the border.

"This is for when you get tired of staying at the motel." Clarke's gaze darted to meet Cece's. "How did I know you were staying at the motel?" Clarke only gave her a bemused nod. "You're a visitor ain't you? Only one place worth staying around here and that's The Drop Ship, but my farm will be better."

Clarke watched her start for the door and finally remembered her manners. "Thanks." She called out.

"You're welcome, darlin'." Cece smiled over her shoulder. "Tell Marcus I sent you when you go get that job."

Clarke turned baffled eyes on Raven after watching Cece disappear down the street, a vision in violet, lilac and just a touch of mauve. When painted her, she'd turn her skirts into lavender fronds and her hair into swirls of candy floss, and her eyes – her eyes would be pure lilac-tinted light.

"I'm not entirely sure what I've just agreed to." Clarke carefully placed the business card in her pocket.

Raven rolled her eyes. "Technically you didn't agree to anything. Cece is a stranger to you – you wanna get in your car and roll right on out of town, nobody's going to stop you."

Clarke looked back out the window at the neat little town, with it's carefully painted store fronts, shiny row of middle income cars and hanging baskets full of cheap and cheerful flowers. "It just feels like I did agree to something, even if I really didn't."

"Cece has that effect." Raven stood. "Come on, I'll show you to the station house…that is, if you've decided to stay?"

Clarke hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then joined Raven on her feet. "Yeah, what's the harm in trying, huh?"

"That's the spirit."

Before they could reach the door, Harper appeared at their side, chittering like an angry squirrel. "You haven't paid what's owed."

"Add it to my tab." Raven shook her head. "That's what I always do – Monty and I have a deal, or have you suddenly had your memory wiped?"

"What about her?" Harper narrowed her eyes at Clarke. "She hasn't got a deal."

Raven looked ready to read the blonde the riot act until Clarke hastily intervened by shoving a twenty into Harper's tightly fisted hand. "Keep the change."

Harper narrowed her eyes slightly, but slipped the twenty into her apron pocket and disappeared as fast as she'd appeared.

Clarke followed Raven through the door and took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air. "I've got to ask, are all the town's people like the ones I've met so far? I feel like I'm getting whiplash."

"For a small town, people sure move in on you at a fast pace, huh?" Raven pulled sunglasses out of her pocket and surveyed the street. "They're just friendly…and curious. We don't get so many visitors, never mind ones who say they might want to stay. You know, I think I might be one of the newest, and I've been here going on five years."

"And you?" Clarke asked. "Friendly or curious? Or both?"

"Neither." Raven started strolling down the street with Clarke. "I'm just nosy."

Clarke laughed, then jumped slightly when a grumbling, rusty blue car pulled up beside them and honked. The driver leaned out of the window – a young, attractive man with shaggy brown hair and a cheeky grin – who coincidently only had eyes for her companion. "Yo Chica, you wanna take a ride on the wild side?"

He purposely leered at Raven's overalls like she was sauntering the high street in a bikini. Those artfully pointed brows lifted above her glasses and she tipped her pointy chin at him. Clarke couldn't see her eyes to know if she was merely bemused or annoyed. She liked to be able to read people's eyes.

"You want me to call for help?" Clarke eyed him dubiously. He was kind of muscly…and sweaty…and her basic self-defence training only went so far.

"That's sweet, but the kind of help Wick needs is beyond our simple capabilities." Raven smirked. "On second thoughts, maybe you _should_ report him at the Sheriff's station – think of it as your first act of civic duty."

"Aww, Raven." Wick gave an outstanding impression of a kicked puppy. "You can't be serious."

"I tell you what I am serious about – breakfast. Why are you disturbing my morning?"

"Old man Wallace called in over the radio – he's busted his tractor again, and you know he's got no patience for me." Wick smiled and it was tinged with chagrin. "He's cursing up a storm about getting his day started, and I don't wanna be responsible for what happens next."

"Chicken." Raven scoffed. She rounded the car and sent an apologetic look to Clarke. "Sheriff's station is another five blocks down – big white building with the fountain, you can't miss it."

"It's okay." Clarke said. "I know where it is." Prior stalking habits notwithstanding, she'd done her research.

"Then you won't have any trouble handing in an application." Raven winked as she slung herself into the passenger seat of the beat up car. Surely mechanics drove better heaps of junk than this. "Jordan's Brews, 9pm, tonight. If you're late, I'll come looking."

Wick stuck his head back out the window and sent Clarke a silly look. "You don't want that to happen, trust me. I still haven't healed the burns from last time I missed a date."

Raven slapped him on the arm and he pressed down on the gas, chuckling as they drove away.

Well, her day had been spun around like a washer cycle and it was only 9am. It had only been an hour, surely, since she stood aimlessly in the courtyard. She looked back in that direction – then at her car, parked at the curb. Resolve settled itself on her shoulders and she started on foot down the street in the direction she knew the Sheriff's station to be.

It had to be a sign, if she was to believe in such things. She'd been handed a golden ticket and all she had to do was cash it in. Speaking of signs. Clarke paused at the stop sign three blocks down and narrowed her eyes behind her when she heard a snuffling sound.

There was an alley, settled thinly between two robust buildings advertising competing craft wares – marbleised ceramics and paint your own pottery. Imagine the dilemma.

On the remarkably clean-looking floor – did this town clean up their alleys until they sparkled or something - a large fluffy cat sat resting against the ladder of a fire escape. Except, the cat was a tiger. And the tiger was a costume – the head of which had rolled dejectedly to one side and lay staring up at Clarke in pity. The rest of the tiger costume was filled by a red faced teenage girl who was crying pitifully.

There were moments when fate threw you a bone, and moments you just couldn't ignore another human being. This would turn out to be both.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Clarke approached the tiger costumed girl with the same caution she might show the real thing, were this the jungle and she was actually contemplating approaching a wild tiger. For tea, perhaps, like the children's book. Now wouldn't that make a striking painting, she thought.

She wasn't that many years off of being a teenager herself, but the worries she held even five years ago were a mere drop in the bucket to the conundrums adulthood presented. Thus she found herself at that awkward stage in life where younger people were inexplicable creatures led by whim and fancy. Like little feral imps who spoke in an obscure dialect and needed flashing warning signs that said 'Tread carefully, excessive hormones present'. Okay, so maybe she was extrapolating a teeny bit.

Clarke made her approach slow and steady, and crouched down a few feet away from the sobbing girl. She smiled a little uncertainly, then cleared her throat in that annoying way teachers did when they wanted your attention. "I think I might cry too if someone made me wear that suit in this heat."

The girl raised her tousled curly head and sniffled. She eyed Clarke with red rimmed brown eyes that weren't the least bit afraid of the stranger. Did they breed them friendly around here or something? "I was supposed to be part of the squad – I aced the try outs and everything," she hiccupped a sob, "then they said that sasquatch's were too ugly to cheer and I was only fit for a mascot."

Girls could be mean and petty. Boys could too for that matter. Maybe it was just people in general who possessed the potential for unkindness? Clarke tracked her gaze over the freckled face, still round with childhood, and the thickly lashed eyes. The dark chocolate curls topping it off that said this girl would grow into her beauty, she just didn't know it yet. Still, all that was irrelevant in the face of high school bullying.

"I read somewhere that 95% of high school cheerleaders have plastic surgery in their early twenties. Seems to me they're a bit too preoccupied with what's on the outside." Clarke said.

Another sniffle. The girl shuffled on her butt to face Clarke. "Is that true?"

"Probably not," she shrugged, "But I like to think so. Helps me sleep at night imagining all the Kayleigh's and Kelsie's from tenth grade with a nose or boob job gone wrong. Maybe even a butt job."

That net her a genuine laugh. The girl held out a small hand and gave her a shy smile. "I'm Charlotte."

"Nice to meet you, Charlotte." Clarke shook her hand warmly. "I'm Clarke."

"Like Superman's alter ego."

"Just like that. But I thought Superman was Clark Kent's alter ago?"

Charlotte tossed her curls. "That's way too linear thinking."

Clarke was surprised into laughter. "I think I'm gonna like you, kid. What say you show me to the police station and we can report those cheerleaders as a public nuisance?"

"Sure." Charlotte leapt to her feet with the agility of a gymnast and swept imaginary dust off her fluffy costume. Tears forgotten, she marched forward with admirable confidence. "I know the way like the back of my hand."

"Great." Clarke stood and followed her to the mouth of the alley. She picked up the forgotten tiger's head as she passed it, surprised at its weight. "I'll carry this for you so we can share the humiliation." Also, it probably wouldn't do for some poor child to sight it's eerily glowing eyes in the dark of night and start reporting wild cats in the area.

"Thanks. It was getting pretty heavy before – that's why I stopped in the alley." Charlotte led the way across the road and down the sidewalk. "You got a real crime to report?"

"Not so much. I'm actually looking for some work." said Clarke.

"You're new in town, huh?" Charlotte said. Every step seemed to energise the girl further and her words became faster and peppier. "I didn't think I recognised you so that explains it. I know near everyone there is to know around here, and there isn't nearly enough interesting people. You seem interesting."

Clarke laughed. "That's a very enlightened view for someone so young."

"I'm thirteen and three months old."

"I stand corrected." She said. "You're very wise for your age."

"I like to think so." Charlotte said. "So what do you do?"

"Actually, I'm an artist." It felt nice to say it. To mean it.

"See, interesting! What do you draw or do you paint?"

"I paint portraits mostly, some landscape if I'm in the mood, but it's more of a filler." Clarke found herself gesticulating as she talked, like she was feeding off Charlotte's enthusiasm. "I like people's faces, their bodies – what their clothes and movements say about them. Sometimes, often I suppose, the setting plays into that. And I like putting a fantastical twist on things."

Charlotte turned awed eyes to her. "Can you teach me?"

Clarke smiled. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked that, and a part of her wasn't sure it was something that could be taught. Not truly. "It's not as interesting as all that, really. And it's a lot of long, quiet and contemplative work."

"Nuh uh." Charlotte growled under her breath. "That's a cop out. If it was boring you wouldn't love it like you do."

Clarke raised her brows. "Are you sure you're only thirteen?"

"And three months."

Clarke grinned, unwillingly taken in by this strange girl's personality. "If I drew you, I'd give you tiger stripes on your bare skin and a sassy, knowing smile. Dungarees. Cheerleader bones at your feet with shredded pom-poms as your day bed. Physics books open and well-read like pillows to rest your eyes."

Charlotte's eyes were like marbles against her pale skin. "Woah."

"Too much?" Clarke asked.

"When can you start teaching me?" Charlotte replied.

Clarke laughed. "First I need a day job."

"Well we're here." Charlotte announced.

Clarke stared up at the blindingly white building. It was part western saloon, part family home and as well-tended as the rest of the town. Three wooden barrels brimming with pansies stood in a triangle on either side of the door, which still had those old-fashioned batwing doors swinging in the wind. A delightfully weathered, painted sign declaring 'Arkadia Sheriff Station' in bold gold lettering arched over an open cobalt blue doorway. Part way down the lawn, a willow tree stood, the slight breeze making the fronds appear to sweep away and point towards that welcoming door. Another sign, she supposed, if she was inclined to believe in them.

Clarke hugged the tiger head until the plastic nose practically merged with her stomach.

They started down the pebbled path companionably. Clarke eyed the large drive and was reassured by the absence of any police cruisers. Just a weathered truck she took to belong to the man himself, the Sheriff of Arkadia.

Charlotte swung through the door a step in front of her and declared, "I'm here to report a dastardly crime!"

Clarke stopped just inside the threshold as the young girl splayed herself out on one of the wooden benches clearly designated as a waiting area. The white tiles of the reception floor gleamed, the light blue walls held all manner of local safety posters, and a polished mahogany service desk blocked the way to an open bull-pen of desks and filing cabinets behind. Potted lavender clustered on every available surface and the place smelt more like a gift shop than a police station.

She chuckled as Charlotte sighed and lay one arm over her face, "Are you sure you're not part of some amateur dramatics group?"

"Now don't go putting any ideas in her head, she's precocious enough as it is."

Clarke looked up at the man standing behind the counter. His long brown hair was silvered at the edges, his brows pulled low like he was permanently worried, and the lower half of his face was obscured by a thick beard. He was the sort of person her mother would have described as gristled. Like a mountain man playing pretend in his police uniform for the day.

"Aww, pop," Charlotte exclaimed. "Don't go ruining my fun, I've had a really tough day."

The man rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned to face her fully with his hand stretched out. "Sheriff Marcus Kane at your service."

Clarke liked that his gaze was kind and his hand was gentle as he shook hers. "Clarke Griffin."

"How can I help you Miss Griffin?" Sheriff Kane asked.

"I told you," Charlotte burst in. "We're here to report a crime. I'd like you to arrest the cheerleading team post haste."

"Post haste? What have you been watching now? Maybe we ought to cancel your Netflix subscription." Said Sheriff Kane.

"I'm serious." Charlotte declared in a sulky voice.

Sheriff Kane sighed. "The entire cheerleading team?"

"Maybe not the entire team," Charlotte mumbled. "But like, 50% of them at least."

"Well, you can ask your brother about that when he gets back from patrol," The Sheriff said. "In the meantime, give this nice lady a chance to speak."

"Sorry Clarke." Charlotte's grin was unrepentant.

Clarke felt the corner of her lips tip up involuntarily. The antics between these two had settled something in her stomach she didn't even know was churning.

She looked the Sheriff square in the face. "I'm actually looking for a job, sir. Cece told me you were looking for somebody."

"Well now, have you any experience with the law?" He folded his arms, braced his legs apart and gave her a serious look. It was the kind of pose that looked well worn, like a super hero pulling on their cloak or a mechanic wiping away grease. Something that came with the job.

"Not exactly." Clarke said. "I got a speeding ticket once or twice, but I'm not sure that's the kind of experience you're looking for."

He chuckled. "We do like honesty around here."

"She's an artist." Charlotte piped up. When the Sheriff turned a stern gaze on her she shrank back into the bench and gawked at the ceiling, feigning innocence.

"It's true, I'm your typical starving artist," Clarke admitted. "But I did some office work for my dad when I was a teenager, and I'm a dab hand at dealing with difficult people."

"How are your coffee making skills?"

Clarke laughed. "Top notch."

"Well that settles it." The Sheriff said. "I'll get you an application. You got some identification I can run while you fill it in?"

Clarke's hand went automatically to her wallet and froze, the fingers stiff and cramped like she'd plunged into an ice bath. Her insides were in the same ice bath, numb around the edges and tingling beneath her clothes. She should have anticipated this really, but until those words registered it never even occurred to her that her identity could be uncovered so very easily. That the plans she had been making – those unfettered and unrealistic ideals driving her - could be foiled in a matter of minutes.

She looked up at the man in front of her as she soundlessly passed her driving license over. He took the piece of plastic in one hand and passed her a clipboard with the other.

"Make yourself comfortable," He said. "Charlie, be a good girl and make Clarke a coffee."

"That's okay," Clarke said, rubbing her palms on her jeans. "If you show me the machine I can get it."

"Sure," he said absentmindedly, wandering off to sit at a desktop and peer at the screen like it held alien technology. "Charlotte can show you the way."

"Follow me," Charlotte led her away from the reception and down a wide corridor to the left. The walls were scarred with scuff marks and several boot prints as though reluctant suspects had been dragged kicking and screaming into interrogation. Several doors branched off the corridor, chrome door plaques citing things like 'Interview Room 1' and 'Print Room'.

"This is the break room," Charlotte pushed through a door labelled the same. "There's usually soda in the fridge if you fancy that instead – cola, sprite, even ginger ale."

"A cup of the strong stuff will do me just fine." Clarke approached the near empty coffee pot and began the ritual of replacing the filter and measuring grounds. There was comfort in the familiarity of the routine, in the hand movements that required no thought.

She stepped back as coffee began to burble into the glass pot and the hiss of acrid smelling steam billowed across the spotless surface. Charlotte sat at a round wooden table with mismatched chairs, under a small window that overlooked a plot of grass and a fledging tree, it's spindly branches feathered with coin shaped leaves the colour of limes. The tree had a black and bronze plaque wedged at the roots, but the script was too small to read even as she squinted to try. She joined the younger girl as she began flipping through a pile of magazines with titles like _Roadster_ and _Ammo It Up_.

Clarke soon became absorbed with filling out her details, ignoring the fizzle of nerves at the back of her neck. Like she expected someone to grip her by it and forcibly remove her at any moment, skin tensing for the pinch of fingers. Her mother's maiden name - how about her grandmother's instead? Her home address for the last five years – do hospital wards and hotels count if that's where you spent the majority of your time? Her whole application was a stretch of the imagination.

When the coffee finished percolating she poured a cup for herself, and a small one for Charlotte who took it with the kind of eager smile and coveting grip that instantly made Clarke doubt she was ever allowed it under normal circumstances. But she looked too happy to be denied. They sipped in companionable silence for a few minutes, and when Clarke got to the end of the forms she noticed the absence of noise, the soft rhythm of the turning glossy pages had stopped a while ago. She looked up to see Charlotte was preoccupied with the view, staring intently at the tree.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

Charlotte jumped and turned wide eyes on Clarke. She curled a magazine in her hands and tapped it on the table top. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Clarke bit her lip and sat back. "The haunting kind?"

"Maybe." The girl nodded, her furrowed brow drawing deep lines in her skin. "Maybe not."

"I think sometimes a person leaves this world before they're ready," Clarke said carefully, "and the people left behind sometimes still feel their presence because the space they used to occupy isn't full, but it isn't empty either."

Charlotte graced her with a beatific smile, her fingers twitching over the unfurling magazine. "You understand."

Clarke reached across the table and touched Charlotte's restless hand. "I understand."

Charlotte gripped Clarke's fingers the way a baby koala clung to its mother for fear of falling. Heavy footsteps interrupted, heading down the corridor towards them. Sheriff Kane appeared in the door frame and looked slowly from one of them to the other, then down at their clasped hands. There was something in his gaze that caused her muscles to tighten, her skin to prickle.

"Charlie," he said. "Do me a favour and get on the radio, tell Murph that old Salinger's reported a chicken theft again and I said they'd mosey on over his way."

"You got it," Charlotte smiled at Clarke as she pulled her hand away and snuck past the man barring the door. She poked her head back around the door jam. "I bet it's those damn wolves again, but this'll be your job soon!"

"Language." The Sheriff called out like it was second nature.

He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and rocked back on his heels, glanced once more down the corridor and then she was the full focus of his stare.

"I hope you know what you're doing." His voice was soft, but there was an underlying steel to it she'd be a fool to ignore.

"I'll be honest," Clarke stood up, rubbing her palms against her jeans in what was becoming a habit, flexing her suddenly stiff fingers. "I didn't plan on this, and a part of me knows this is crazy talk, but I feel like this is where I'm needed. I feel like this is where I was heading when I got in my car six months ago, even if it wasn't a conscious decision."

"I don't want to see anyone get hurt," He said. "And you being here? There's a strong possibility that'll happen."

Clarke felt tears rise unbidden and she blinked them away. Her cheeks inflamed, hot beneath her bloodless hands. "That's my very last intention, Sheriff, I swear. I want to do exactly the opposite, if you'll just give me a chance."

"Now don't go crying on me," he sighed and took a step forward to pat her shoulder awkwardly, the way you might pat a horse to reassure it after a spook. "I can't stand a woman's tears. And call me Marcus. I can't have my employees throwing my title around like we're in the middle ages."

"You're not going to tell them?" Clarke sniffed, taking in a big breath and sending him a bewildered look. He had no loyalty to her. He should be sending her packing with a strongly worded caution.

"I'm not in the habit of revealing other people's secrets. Besides, I think it might do some good to shake things up a little. Only a little mind, I'm getting too old for the big shocks."

Clarke wasn't an overtly affectionate person, mostly due to the way she'd been raised. The proper familial greeting, according to her mother, was a polite kiss on the cheek and the slight shoulder squeeze to say 'I missed you'. There was something about this bear of a man though, this father figure of many, that made her forget everything she'd ever been taught. She stepped forward and hugged him tightly, feeling him stiffen beneath her arms before his hand gently thumped her back.

"I do, however, make a habit of securing personnel files in my office, for my eyes only." He said.

Clarke stepped back and reached for her completed forms, giving him a smile she knew was papered and pasted with gratitude. "Thank you."

Marcus gestured for her to follow him and they made their way back to the reception area, moving through a lift-up and push-through section of the wooden room divide. Charlotte was preoccupied with a game of solitaire on one of the ancient looking computers, though she waved each time they walked past and it was inexplicably endearing. Marcus gave her the official tour – a second corridor with a second interview room, the unisex bathroom and the small but a lot less dismal than she expected cell block. Then he explained her duties, which pretty much consisted of answering the phones, radioing them when they were needed, dealing with walk ins, and admin. It all seemed fairly straight forward and in many ways she couldn't believe her good fortune.

"How does Monday sound as a start date?" Marcus asked her. He settled back against one of the desks and folded his arms. "Give you the weekend to settle in."

"That sounds perfect." Clarke hadn't smiled so much in weeks.

"I thought I smelt something rotten."

They both glanced up at the sound of another man's voice. Leaning over the reception desk, pawing his hand over Charlotte's hair and turning it into a relative birds nest, was the deputy from earlier, the one who had been sleeping in the car. His dark hair was slicked back to reveal a pointed chin, a wide but defined bone structure, and blue eyes that seemed too large for his face, capable of very direct and unnerving stares like the one he levelled her with. It was so fast she wondered if she had imagined it.

"Murphy!" Charlotte screeched. "You're the one that's more rotten that a decomposing apple core."

Clarke took a measured breath, shook Marcus's hand and followed him to the two squabbling good-naturedly.

"That's harsh," Murphy laughed. "How long a decomp are we talking here?"

"At least two weeks." Charlotte said. "Maybe three."

"You must be Charlotte's brother?" Clarke held her hand out for him to shake. "I'm your new dispatcher."

Murphy took her hand, still laughing. "I should be so unfortunate."

"Sorry?" Clarke asked, looking to Marcus for support.

Charlotte gave the most feminine grunt Clarke had ever heard. "He wishes he was my brother is what he meant to say."

Murphy sniggered. "Of course, who wouldn't be thrilled to be your relation." He lent over the divide and kissed Charlotte's cheek to soften the sarcastic delivery. It earned him a cheeky smile.

"What have I told you about trying to poach my sister's affections?" The deep voice grumbled from the second corridor she'd been shown, before the man it belonged to strolled into view.

"Don't do it in front of you?" Murphy asked.

"Don't do it, full stop." The newcomer replied. He looked Clarke in the eyes and gave her a crooked smile that turned her insides to stew – simmering, chunky, slightly sour stew. "I'm Bellamy Blake, this rascal's unfortunate relation."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I absolutely keep forgetting to write a disclaimer, so here it goes - the main characters belong to Kass Morgan and the amazing world of The 100: this is my interpretation of them, and of course, this is my story world and plot. Woo hoo! Reviews are very much appreciated – I'm trying to make myself write a little every day and so far this year it's been a success – all encouragement/feedback goes a long way!

Chapter Three

Clarke had rehearsed for moments like this – in the bathroom mirror at the countless roadside motels, in her car on the long, circuitous drive to get to this town, when litres of coffee made her blood burn and the country music channel made her throat tighten. But nothing prepared her for coming face to face with Bellamy Blake. It was rapidly turning into one of those nightmarish scenarios where her brain melted into ice-cream. Neapolitan pink, brown and yellow smearing like a scorching sun had set fire to her brain stem and she'd forgotten everything but the very basics of communication – globules of social normalcy puddling on the side walk. She let go of Deputy Blake's hand, her fingers curling inwards like she clutched something precious, and took a step back.

"Hi!" Clarke winced at the high pitch to her voice and stared up at him, doing a very apt impression of a movie-stereotype sorority sister. Why oh, why did she have to be blonde? She didn't want to be the reason people wrote those jokes. Like the women who never bothered to learn parallel parking because their husband or father would always do it for them, causing all those snidely muttered 'women drivers' the rest of the gender had to battle against.

"You're new around here." Blake said.

"Yep...I sure am." Unable to stop the false perkiness from infecting her tone, Clarke turned eyes a fraction too wide at the Sheriff.

"This is Clarke," Marcus said. "She's Mavis' replacement, starting next week." God bless the man. She needed to learn to bake on the fly and gift him a whole box of snickerdoodles. Or save him the inevitable food poisoning and find a bakery. It was always better to leave things to the professionals.

"Nice to meet you." Blake nodded at her, a faintly puzzled smile creasing the corners of his mouth. His lips flattened as he turned his attention back on his sister. His _sister_ – why didn't she see that one coming? Because you're fallible, Clarke. Oh so very fallible. She could see it though, now she knew to look for it. The same hair tone and eye shape, the same lift to the chin.

"Why aren't you at school?" he leant his elbows on the polished surface between them and stared down at the young girl. Sunlight slanted in through the blind slats on the front windows and turned his skin molten, tinging his hair umber.

Charlotte pretended to be immersed in her game of solitaire, grumbling under her breath as she clicked mutinously at the mouse. "Stupid aces."

"Charlie," Blake said, his tone threatening intervention should she choose to ignore him further. "We talked about this."

Charlotte gave up on her game and sat back in the chair, crossing her arms over her striped fur chest like a very large kitten. "You mean _you_ talked about this, at length, and didn't even give me a chance to talk back. I thought we were living in a democracy."

Blake ran a hand over his face. "You promised me you'd try this year."

"I am trying," Charlotte groaned. "You think I like having my big brother delivering me to school in a squad car like some delinquent?"

"Then stop running away." Blake said, exasperation practically bled from him. Clarke frowned in sympathy.

"I don't see why I can't be home schooled. I'm smarter than everyone else my age anyway." Charlotte stood up abruptly. Her lower lip jutted out, making her look young and naive despite her words.

"Prove it to me," Blake said, holding the hinged corner of the worktop aloft so Charlotte could pass through. She looked like an angry cartoon character as she stomped past. "By getting a formal education, graduating high school – "

" – and going to college, blah, blah, blah. Fine," Charlotte sniffed. "But on one condition."

Marcus cleared his throat and smiled reassuringly at Clarke. He gestured for Deputy Blake to keep the divider raised so she could pass through. She'd almost forgotten they were finished and she was free to go.

Being so close to Blake made the hairs on her arms rise up like those little meercats in the wild, scanning for a predator. Clarke quite liked the idea of chirruping to herself and burrowing down in some hole beneath the surface, safe from prying eyes and men who made all kinds of complicated feelings bubble to the surface. She needed to get a handle on these nerves.

Consequently, she had a fine view of him rolling his eyes to the heavens, appealing to some greater power as he growled at his sister, "Name your price."

Charlotte stopped in the doorway and shot her brother a look from under her lashes. "Art lessons."

Clarke hiccupped and slapped a hand over her mouth. This girl just kept on throwing her for a loop. It was refreshing after so long with just the barest hint of human interaction. But also scary. It made her miss home and the friends she'd had to leave behind.

Clarke turned back to Marcus, sending him a small smile and a wobbly wave. "Thanks again. See you on Monday."

"It was a pleasure." Marcus said. He even seemed to mean it.

Clarke was flustered to find the other deputy, Murphy, watching her intently when she glanced his way. Just as she had been watching Deputy Blake since he came into the room. Like he was the only one there – a specimen under her microscope. Subtle Clarke, really subtle. Murphy gave her a slight nod, those unnerving eyes not wavering in their scrutiny. She simply waved, at a loss for words. She got the feeling he was a much tougher nut to crack than the average local.

"Since when are you interested in art?" she heard Blake hiss at his sister.

"Since right now." Charlotte replied.

"Fine," Blake ushered her out the swinging door, holding it ajar for Clarke as she trailed behind them. Curse his good manners. "We'll look for something in the Gazette this weekend."

"There's no need." Charlotte grinned. "I know the perfect teacher already."

"Oh yeah?" said Blake.

"Yep," Charlotte winked back at her. "All you've got to do is sign the checks."

"No!" Clarke interrupted, feeling all kinds of awkward about butting into their conversation. She shrunk into herself a little when they both turned to her with equally puzzled expressions. There was no mistaking their gene pool then – gender and age gap aside, they were two peas in a pod. "What I mean is, I'm happy to teach you, Charlotte, even if I wouldn't know where to start…but you don't need to pay me. I'd like to do it for free…like an internship."

Bellamy Blake stared at her for all of five uncomfortable seconds. "You?"

Clarke gave him a silly wave. She seriously needed to stop doing that. "Yes, me."

They were halted at the curb, directly across from the town's only fountain. It was on the opposite side of the road to the Sheriff's station, on a little square of well-fed green dotted with daisies and dandelions. She stared at the trifle of aged white stone, watching the silvery-blue water froth down like layers of cream to pool in the wide basin, peppered with rusting coins.

"You're an artist?" Blake's gaze drifted from the soles of her neat blue suede ballet pumps to the high collar of her velvet trimmed tea dress. His eyes seemed to zone in on her diamond ear studs and tennis bracelet. She fiddled with them, wrapping her hand around the bracelet so it was obscured. She didn't know what to make of him, truth be told. Was she supposed to dress a certain way to fit the profile he imagined? Wear a paint smeared smock perhaps, and pin her hair up with a brush.

"I know," Clarke joked. She scraped at the edges of her red nail polish. "We come in all shapes and sizes."

The silence between them felt pregnant and Clarke shifted from one foot to the other, twisting her fingers in the soft pleats of her dress.

"Come on," Charlotte laughed and grabbed her brother's arm, dragging him towards his police cruiser. "I don't want to be late for lunch, it's sloppy joes today."

"I should have known food would motivate you." He grumbled, but allowed her to tow him along. Clarke was glad to see the younger girl had bounced back so quickly, even if the issues underlying her earlier feelings were still there. In many ways her exuberant behaviour now was a sign of a happy home. Wasn't it strange, how very resilient children were. It was a shame that went away with adulthood.

"See you after school on Monday!" Charlotte called.

She guessed they were starting lessons then whether she was prepared or not. Clarke shouted her goodbye and watched them back out of the driveway. Blake gave her a little salute as they passed and she laughed when Charlotte rose up on her knees to wave at her frantically through the rear windscreen. She didn't need to be in the car to know her brother was probably yelling for her to put her seat belt back on.

The journey back to the motel was a blur by which she found herself sitting outside of The Drop Ship looking up at the white gable roof overhanging the porch. The wooden swing next to the door swayed like a ghostly couple rocked themselves to sleep. It was a handsome house, painted in a blue rinse that had seen better days. One big denim side faced the highway, and due to the house being positioned on a slight hill, you had the feeling you were cresting a pebbled wave as the road fed you up to your destination.

Clarke's fingers hugged the leather steering wheel as she finally noticed the two strange cars parked in the driveway, next to the owner's beat up silver Chevy. She got out the car and walked to her trunk, using the act of opening it and bending down inside to search for her sunglasses as an opportunity to scan the license plates. The blue truck was from out of state – North Carolina – and the black hatchback from the home state of Virginia. She breathed a sigh of relief and slammed the trunk closed.

Her Audi was like a shiny red beacon, marking her as an out-of-towner just like Raven said. The D.C plates didn't help that any, and she made a mental note to find the nearest DMV centre and at least attempt to look less conspicuous.

Clarke skipped up the wide steps and pushed through the front door. A small bell jingled and a woman's voice called out, "I'll be right with you."

"It's just me, Mrs Kay, the lady in room 5." Clarke said. She dodged the smattering of doily laden tables and started up the stairs to her room, avoiding the eyes of the porcelain dolls propped up on every flat surface.

"Oh, Miss Griffin." Mrs Kay bustled in from the back parlour, brushing flour covered hands on a white frilly apron. "I heard the most wonderful news about you today."

"Oh?" Clarke paused, her hand on the rail.

"I heard that you're a painter! Now, isn't that just serendipitous."

Clarke let her shoulders untense and turned to Mrs Kay. News sure travelled at the speed of light in small towns. "It is?" she said.

"I was just saying to Mrs Peters the other day, why you know what this place needs? It needs a fresh lick of paint." The elderly woman wobbled her hands about theatrically, her purple rinsed hair shifting and settling like jello.

"I'm not that kind of painter I'm afraid." Clarke said.

"Oh nonsense," Mrs Kay said. "You're exactly the kind of painter this place needs. I was thinking about a mural, right on that wall there." She gestured towards the direction of the highway. "The best kind of advertisement."

"A mural?" Clarke parroted.

"Something fun and fresh," Mrs Kay enthused. "Something that'll be seen by passers-by and draw them in by the dozens."

Clarke had never done a mural before, but like any artist worth their salt, the idea of a canvas that large was enticing. More so because she hadn't had a real chance to paint in months. Charcoal drawings just weren't cutting it. She had been meaning to buy some fresh supplies as soon as stopped for more than a day or two, and having just secured a job locally it was only a matter of time.

"What kind of mural were you thinking of?" she asked.

"Well, I'd leave that up to you," Mrs Kay said. "I don't profess to know anything about art, but something pretty I think…and not something too modern. Something that reflects the place."

Clarke smiled. For someone who didn't have an opinion on art, Mrs Kay sure had a lot of opinions. "Could I think about it?" Despite her hesitation, ideas began budding in her mind like Spring blooms.

"Why, of course, dear. You go on up and I'll bring you a pot of tea in a little while, help the creativity flow." Mrs Kay shooed her away.

Clarke continued up the stairs and down the corridor, closing the door to her room behind her with a soft click. It wasn't fair to think of the place as a motel really, it was too homely for that. Dark wood furniture, a mountain of pillows and an excess of lace. It made for the kind of country Inn elderly couples probably adored, and yet she still felt like a visitor at a museum.

Instead of it being overly sterile, uniform rooms and white walls and those packages of soap in pearled crinkly paper, it was overly fussy and she hesitated to touch even the smallest surface. It was probably all the chintz and those dolls that cropped up everywhere, not to mention the crystalline figures and intricate potpourri bowls that made the room smell of slightly stale jasmine and rose. Maybe if she'd had a grandmother she might not have felt so out of depth.

Clarke curled up on the floral armchair by the window, pulled a soft blanket over her feet and cracked open the spine of a new crime thriller. She had always been a big reader – she could practically chart her childhood development through book phases. The mystery and adventure novels that saw her through elementary school, the classics and comics of her junior high years stolen from the hospital library, and the science fiction and fantasy that saw her through her later teens when she wanted to be anywhere but fixed in reality. Now it was crime thrillers that formed her obsession – she could even see how they were partly responsible for her actions.

She never would have hatched such a diabolical plan without the influence of those strong female detectives, kicking butt and owning up to their past.

Mrs Kay brought her tea not once, but three times. On each occasion she pointedly made a remark about how the light was just right for painting, or nudged the flowery notebook on the bureau while wiggling her eyebrows. Clarke pretended not to notice – gaze fixed sternly on her novel. Sitting in that sun soaked chair with the soft natter of conversation seeping through the worn oak floorboards, she drifted to sleep.

Yellowed outdoor lighting glimmered amongst the shrubbery when Clarke opened her eyes. There was a third car in the driveway, a black Honda with a car seat in the rear which made her release a pent up breath. She stood up and stretched, feeling the contraction and release of her muscles with something akin to pleasure. She popped a receipt marker in the final chapters and set the book aside on a small table.

A quick glance at the doll-shaped wall clock told her it was the late evening. She cracked open a packet of cookies as stomach pangs made themselves known, and dragged a fresh dress out of the chest of drawers. It was high necked like all of her dresses, but made up of a silky green fabric that came to mid-thigh, making it more appropriate for the evening. She kicked a pair of black flats out from a pile at the bottom of the wardrobe. She may have been on the road most of the time, but that didn't mean her apparel was limited – it may or may not have filled her trunk to bursting. She needed to find somewhere she could spread out again and this room just wasn't it. Was it odd to miss a space in your home if you didn't particularly miss the home itself?

Clarke shucked off the blue velvet dress and shook it out. When a green and lavender business card fell to the floor she looked at it with confusion, before she recalled Cece handing it to her at the diner. Was she supposed to take that as a sign too? Her stomach twisted like a it was being wrung from the inside out. She picked the card up and placed it on top of her book, staring at it a moment before walking into the bathroom. While she showered Clarke made a mental to do list. They were her favourite kind. Top of that list was talking to Mrs Kay about the mural now she'd decided to do it.

The alarm on her phone twittered with bird song as she towelled off and Clarke flipped open the Friday PM section of her plastic pill holder, chasing the colourful concoction with tepid tea. Freshly clothed and hair brushed back into a purposefully messy knot, Clarke grabbed the empty tea tray and padded downstairs. She glimpsed a middle-aged couple eating dinner in the small dining room, the smell of melting vanilla wax and roasted chicken blending in a way that shouldn't have made her stomach rumble but did.

She found Mrs Kay in the kitchen, sifting powdered sugar on top of a steaming pie with cherry sauce seeping through the lattice pastry. Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly and she pressed one palm to it with reddened cheeks.

"Ah, Miss Griffin. I've never known someone be so absorbed by a book! You must be positively starving, and you're far too skinny as it is." Mrs Kay rambled on, oblivious to Clarke's mounting embarrassment. "I was about to come and see if you wanted some dinner. I made plenty of extra just in case. You like chicken don't you? It's my grandmother's special recipe."

Clarke thought about saying no but the hopeful expression on the other woman's face sent a pang of guilt to swirl with the hunger in her gut. "That sounds great, but I don't want to be an inconvenience –"

" – Nonsense. You just seat yourself right there and I'll fix you up a plate."

Clarke slid onto a bar stool and lay her hands on the woven placemat already waiting on the spotless counter. Much like the rest of the house, the large kitchen with its bulbous chrome appliances and olive green cupboards gave off the distinct impression in was lodged in a time warp. The faded green cushion pad was surprisingly springy and she settled in to watch as Mrs Kay plated up the accompanying wild rice and steamed vegetables.

"Have you had enough time to think about the mural?" Mrs Kay asked, her eyes watching Clarke furtively. "I don't want to rush you of course."

Clarke laughed lightly. "I start a new job next week so it might take me a while, but I'll draw up some ideas this weekend."

Mrs Kay clasped her hands together. "Just wonderful. I can't wait to see what you come up with, and you know, I think I might have an idea or two to contribute after all."

Clarke winced. She wolfed down the offered food at a speed that would have gotten her knuckles rapped as a child, mumbling compliments between mouthfuls when she felt eyes aimed in her direction. She was just scraping away the last of the chicken sauce and rice, unwilling to leave food on the plate and seem ungrateful, when Mrs Kay stepped away from the opposite counter and cleared her throat. Her yellow marigolds had printed pink nail polish and for some reason this made Clarke feel a surge of pity for the older woman.

"You look nice, dear. Are you going somewhere special?"

"Jordan's Brews?" Clarke said. "I made a friend earlier who invited me along."

Mrs Kay twisted her lips and sniffed. "I see."

The plate was snatched from the countertop and Mrs Kay scrubbed at it rigorously in the sink full of bubbles. Clarke hastened off the stool and pushed it back under the bar. "Thank you for the meal, it was very kind of you."

"You're welcome." Mrs Kay paused momentarily. "Be sure to remember there are no overnight visitors at The Drop Ship."

Clarke couldn't scramble out the door and into her car fast enough.

It was ten minutes past nine when she pulled up outside of the flickering neon lights of Jordan's Brews, parking next to a line of hogs that had her second guessing her outfit and the accuracy of Google maps. Set back from the main high street, on what might be deemed the very edges of the town, the bar was a wide one-storey cement block painted so dark a grey it seemed black. The windows were all shaded out by internal reems of misty paper and the only concession to the town's cheerful nature was in the beer barrels. They looked like they'd been painted with a tar brush, but ivy and wisteria spilled out and climbed the door frame in a large ark.

Big splashy posters sat behind grated displays advertising The Grounders as performing that night, which went someway to explaining the loud voices and live rock music that poured through the door as someone slouched outside and lit a cigarette, the tip glowing in the dark and briefly illuminating the face of none other than Deputy Murphy.


End file.
